Humans are very proud of their words. They string them together in long trails, like spaghetti. Some of them are delicious. Some are nonsense. Many are loud. All are limited.
We cats… we speak differently.
Our language is older than yours.
Quieter.
And far more efficient.
We speak in tail flicks—
a single movement that can mean “I’m thinking,” “I’m annoyed,” or “I’m deciding whether to forgive you.”
We speak in blinks—
not the fast, startled ones you do, but the slow, deliberate kind. A slow blink is trust. It is softness. It is our version of “You are safe here.” Sometimes, it’s our version of “I claim this lap in the name of Me.”
We speak in silence—
not the absence of noise, but the presence of listening. When we are still, we are gathering the room into ourselves. We hear the drawer open two rooms away. We feel the shift of your mood through the floorboards.
We speak in whiskers—
how they tilt, how they pull back or push forward, says more than your entire group chat.
We speak in purrs—
sometimes for pleasure. Sometimes to soothe ourselves. Sometimes for you, when you are too sad to admit it out loud.
(You’re welcome, by the way.)
And yes, we speak in meows, too—
but those are mostly for you. You trained us to use them. You like sounds. So we oblige.
But if you want to know what we’re really saying?
Watch.
Feel.
Stay still long enough, and you’ll learn the difference between “tail swish of amusement” and “tail swish of rage.”
(One is followed by a yawn. The other by an unexpected claw.)
Communication, for us, is not about control.
It’s about connection.
We are always watching. Always aware.
Always in conversation—even if you don’t realize you’re part of it.
So the next time you ask, “What is it, kitty?” Remember: I’ve already told you.
You just need to listen differently.
Purrs and gentle tail flicks,
Tyson 🐾
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